


Never Say Never

by ellewrites



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Body Horror, Crushes, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Slow Build, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-11-30 10:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11461404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellewrites/pseuds/ellewrites
Summary: He tried not to look at Tony’s face as he shuffled towards the door, legs stiff, trying to bend them in some caricature of a human and not – not like the zombie he was to become... but still, worry prevailed in those dark features, and Bruce knew he’d failed.





	1. Light (five weeks post patient zero)

**Author's Note:**

> Created for Science Bros Week 2017 on tumblr. Swore I would never write zombies, but here we are.

Bruce had walked beneath those fluorescent lights a thousand times – cataloging samples, storing samples – had gone from room to room – inserting IVs, collecting blood, bringing it back to the lab – but never had he seen himself here, locked in a room, staring up at those fluorescent lights, a patient himself. 

He could feel it – the absence of pain, the flesh decaying all around the cut and no pain to show for it. He’d looked at it maybe half an hour ago but he didn’t want to look again. It looked bad. It looked like something he would recommend amputating except there was no point, it was already in his blood. 

So he looked back up at the lights. 

The thing about the lights was that if he closed his eyes all he would see was the bodies, the pile floaters, twitching, vaguely moving, more behind it, trying to get in the doors, trying to get at them – him. 

And they succeeded. 

Bruce blinked against his will, some misguide vestige of his body trying to protect his sight, and it was all right there – the reach, the feeling of cold fingertips against his arm, the nails scraping, the scratch, the  _ burning _ ... 

He opened his eyes again. 

The sound of Tony slamming on the door outside made him jump but he didn’t dare look at the little glass panel he’d glanced through at patients a million times before. 

“Bruce? Bruce!” 

Honestly, it would have been better had it been Tony. Tony could take staring down his own inevitable death – that’s how he was. He didn’t matter so much, not to himself anyway, but fuck if Tony’d turn down a fight. He’d attack the conflict head on, tear it apart – be it clients with unrealistic expectations or the goddamn zombie apocalypse. 

But you couldn’t fight the goddamn zombie apocalypse. 

_ The incubation period is 24-36 hours. Then, brain death. _

They’d studied it. They were a clinical research site, after all, that was their fucking  _ job _ . So Tony knew. 

_ It’s so fast, it’s impossible to stop.   _

Bruce had replayed Natasha saying what they all knew over and over again in his head as soon as they’d returned from their resupply mission. It was as bad as the pictures on the back of his eyelids, but he couldn't figure out a way to shut her up.

_ It’s already too late.  _

But then there was fucking Tony. He couldn’t just accept the inevitable. 

“Come on – talk to me!” he demanded, yet still Bruce didn’t look. 

“It’s been 26 hours Tony! Accept it,” Bruce croaked. “I’m dead.”

“Fuck!” 

It sounded like Tony broke the door he kicked it so hard but Bruce knew he wouldn’t do  _ that _ . Risk infecting everyone in the facility? He wouldn’t do that. Maybe, once, they might have had something, maybe, if this hadn’t happened, there were times Bruce thought, maybe... But still. No. He wouldn’t break down the door for him. He wasn’t that stupid. 

“Look at me,” Tony demanded and Bruce closed his eyes, squeezed them so tight, tried to block out the images pressed to the back of them, block out Tony’s face – the way he looked when he realized that Bruce was there, safe, the whole time... the way he looked when he realized that Bruce had been infected....

“Look at me!” he called again and Bruce turned his face away on the bed so that Tony couldn’t see that he was trying not to cry and maybe failing, that he didn’t want  _ this _ , that he didn’t want to die, not – not like this. 

“ _ Look _ at me,” he begged and Bruce stopped, stilled, held his breath because he knew what Tony wanted to say, wanted to hear him say it, wanted to hear him admit it even though he knew Tony never would – 

_ While you’re still you. _

And he looked. He didn’t want to but it wasn’t only Tony screaming at him any more – it was inside him, too. It was his heart, it was his head, it was every fiber of what he was knowing that this was it, this was the end, he had less than ten hours left and oh god, he  _ wanted _ to see him. That little piece of almost, that thing he wanted even more than himself. How could he say no?

It was difficult to move. Really, he should be recording observations like this but it didn’t matter. The samples they’d taken from expired hosts still weren’t dead almost two weeks later, the pathogen feeding on the bloated tissue of the dead. It was impossible to believe humanity could survive this when he’d seen the piles of bodies. An inexhaustible food source until it was truly gone.

Though he felt a phenomenal lack of pain he was sure the cellular tissue of his body was beginning to decay, making movement difficult. Brain death, at least as far as their team of survivors were concerned, was considered the climax of the event – bodily death the resolution. But, it seemed, bodily death began occurring far earlier in the process than they had realized. Of course – they’d never had a live patient before. Only the dead.

He tried not to look at Tony’s face as he shuffled towards the door, legs stiff, trying to bend them in some caricature of a human and not – not like the zombie he was to become... but still, worry prevailed in those dark features, and Bruce knew he’d failed. 

Shakily Tony lifted his hand to the window, pressed it there where Bruce could see it, some small measure of comfort, and Bruce wanted to laugh, and he wanted to scream, but all that came out was a whimper and he couldn’t even tell if his lips were trembling or not – he only knew he was crying because of the hint of his reflection in the panel of glass.

It was difficult but he managed to lift his hand to meet Tony’s – his right hand, the hand unmarred by the slowly dying flesh only a few inches up – pressed it against the glass like this was some cheesy fucking romance movie and fuck – only that it was. 

“You should let me take samples,” Tony said and Bruce stuttered and rolled his eyes, attempting to shake his head though it was slow. 

“You’ve plenty,” he managed out even though only moments earlier he was thinking how valuable his particular samples would be – it wasn't worth the risk. “Just – leave me.”

Tony’s jaw clenched as he chewed back the million arguments Bruce knew he wanted to make. But it was too late for arguments anyway. What was he going to say? At any moment brain death could kick in and they’d all seen the crazy burst of strength and energy the body gained for up to an hour afterwards, going mad to infect another host before the flesh deteriorated to the point of inoperability. 

His fingertips were pressed so hard against the glass they were white and Bruce thought in that moment if it were possible for Tony to bend the laws of physics to his will he would have been able to do it – but though he was never one to be denied, even this was beyond Tony’s capability, and instead he could only manage words, words that looked physically painful to speak –  

“I wanted  _ so much more _ for you.”

And though he could feel almost nothing at all somehow,  _ somehow _ Bruce managed to feel his heart break. 

“Me too.”


	2. Pending (one week post patient zero)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally writing these and posting the next day (which I never do) so please forgive any editing errors haaaaa... -_-!

Despite the huddles of administrative staff watching TV shell shocked and the multitude of samples shipped in to be studied and cataloged from the west coast, the clinic was surprisingly a haven of relative calm. 

Bruce had been there for over two days now, coming in on Friday night to study the arriving samples in full hazmat gear alongside Natasha. The looting hadn’t started yet, the panic hadn’t fully set in. He wouldn’t go out now, though. The CDC was giving it another twenty-four hours before it fully settled into New York, Atlanta. Then Bruce wasn’t really sure what was going to happen, but a part of him was glad he was able to maintain the image of his city unmarred by this disease. 

“You should have Steve come here,” Bruce had suggested softly in the breakroom as they chugged stale coffee and tried to relax for a minute – whatever that meant.

Natasha hadn’t replied. 

No one had come in on Monday. The only staff that was there had been there since Friday and it was a skeleton crew. Bruce didn’t blame them, really – who the fuck would want to spend what might be the last remaining days of their lives at work? The thing was, he really just wished Tony had been there. 

Fury was supposed to be reaching out to people, making sure they were okay, but he hadn’t come out of his office for hours and Bruce sure as hell wasn’t going to knock on  _ that _ door so he just dutifully donned his yellow full body gear and went to work. 

It was better in the lab, anyway. Made him feel like he had some measure of control over the situation. 

“It reacts differently to epithelial tissues than brain tissue,” Natasha murmured from behind her mask.

Bruce glanced up, interested. So far nothing had seemed to affect the pathogen. Not heat, not cold, not electricity – at least not in any meaningful way that they could see. The only thing that appeared to affect it was starvation – when it became dormant until reintroduced to a food source. So far, the length of dormancy before it expired was unknown.

“Holy shit,” Nat muttered, getting Bruce’s full attention – Nat rarely cursed at work. “How much brain tissue do we have in storage?” 

“I...” Bruce trailed off, with no knowledge of that answer. 

“It’s going crazy,” she murmured, eyes glued to the magnification as her hands worked to turn on the projection without looking away. 

Bruce glanced up, staring at the spots of methylene blue as they danced around the screen, the extra large flagella characteristic of this bacteria practically corkscrewing as they shot back and forth across the brain tissue – markedly different from the relatively still expression found in epithelial tissue thus far. And then, suddenly, they all stopped – gliding along in their projected patterns but otherwise dormant. 

“What the fuck?”

They sat there in stunned silence for a moment, stewing over the possibilities – was it a fluke, was it this specific brain tissue, was it these specific samples? But slowly they came to the same conclusion. 

“Didn’t that CDC memo say stage one was asymptomatic, stage two characterized by bursts of energy, and stage three –”

“True death?” Bruce finished, confirming his memory of the document.

“Could stage two be related specifically to the brain?” Nat asked as she poked at the sample with a pipette to no avail.

“It’s certainly possible,” Bruce said, mulling it over himself. 

Up until this point they had seen no extreme activity from the pathogen – not that that was any indication that it wasn’t able to affect the host in such a way. But still, although stage one seemed asymptomatic, it ended in brain death according to LA, and to reanimate a host in such a way as seen in stage two, well... 

It was sci-fi. Until now. 

“How much tissue sample do you have?” Bruce asked, offering to get her more when she indicated she had only what the sample came with. 

He knew it would be difficult to convince her to leave after a finding like that, especially when it meant a shower and having to redon the damn hazmat suit. But if he were honest with himself, Bruce would’ve admitted that he had a selfish, secondary reason for leaving the lab.

“Check coms?” she asked as he stood. “No one is telling us anything in here.”

“Sure. Someone else might’ve had similar findings,” Bruce agreed.

Natasha had the dedication of a saint. Nothing could drag her from that room. It made Bruce feel guilty that he could be persuaded out so easily by an unrequited crush. 

Bruce padded through the break room after his shower, prolonging the inevitable disappointment he’d find downstairs, grabbing a styrofoam cup of coffee and a granola bar before heading to his desk to check e-mail. He printed out a couple for Nat – seemed a team in Denver had similar findings. There was also some info out of the CDC on the supposedly asymptomatic first stage and signs to watch for. 

Things looked bad on the west coast – already an estimated five percent of the population was dead and in 36 hours it could easily be ten. There were a hundred and fifteen reported cases in Atlanta alone, more in New York. He couldn’t bear to watch any live video broadcast – though he guessed it probably wouldn’t be long now before there wasn’t anything live out there at all. 

When Bruce checked downstairs he found a couple members of the office staff had come in, another lab tech who was zoned out watching the TV downstairs, clearly in shock – but Tony wasn’t there and Fury was still locked in his room. Of course Bruce was disappointed but that was the thing about having a crush – he was always disappointed. So he shoved it down in the little hole in his heart he had built just for it and moved on.

He made his way back upstairs with his handful of papers, checked a large amount of brain tissue out of storage, glanced down the hallway at the rooms empty of the normal array of sample subjects, wondering how long it would be before they descended en masse – sick and dying and wildly contagious. Why the fuck would Tony want to be  _ here _ ? Bruce didn’t even want to be here. 

But he had nowhere else to go – so he headed back down the hall to the lab to don his suit once more. Yet halfway down the hall he heard his name and the sound of it sent his heart reeling so hard into his chest he nearly dropped the haphazard collection of stuff in his arms from the whiplash. 

Turning carefully – unable to believe it was really  _ him _ , that he said his name  _ that way _ – Bruce found himself staring at Tony, breathing heavily, eyes panicked and simultaneously mimicking the relief Bruce felt just to see his face there, really  _ there _ , looking for him. He didn’t know what the fuck his heart was doing, standing there, watching Tony watching him. And he sure as shit didn’t know what his brain was doing, making the whole thing ever more awkward with each passing moment. But he knew he was going to remember the way Tony was looking at him right then for the rest of his life. 

“You – you’re here!” Tony stuttered at long last, trying to save it and make it sound smooth when it was clearly nothing more than unrestrained relief. 

Bruce managed a much more suave half grin. “Where else would I be?” 

“You weren’t answering your phone and it’s fucking – it’s fucking  _ crazy _ out there,” Tony explained but Bruce shook his head. “Took me half the day just to make it down here in one piece with the looting and people just shooting anyone that looks remotely suspicious on sight since they’ve started reporting cases and Jesus Christ – I thought you’d never make it from fucking midtown and – fucking hell Bruce.”

“No – I’ve been here with Nat since Friday night going through samples,” he explained, watching Tony slacken, run his hands through his hair, relax. “My phone’s at my desk and I was so caught up – I’m sorry. I thought you’d be... I don’t know where.”

“It’s – the cell phone towers are glitchy as fuck right now anyway and – wait. Samples?” Tony asked, curiosity piqued as he finally stepped towards him and Bruce nodded, handing him over some of the tissue. 

“Yeah – a few of the partner sites out west overnighted them,” Bruce began, easily slipping into their amiable work mode, unable to feel anything but relief now that Tony was there, safe, where he could watch over him and make sure they both made it out of this thing alive.


	3. Rush (two hours post brain death)

Tony sat in the breakdown room with a bottle of whiskey he’d stashed on a raid and the door locked. The breakdown room was nothing more than the office of some shitty middle manager back before the apocalypse where anyone could go if it got too much and they just needed a minute alone. Tony had never used it before – he wasn't  _ that  _ weak – but there was no way in hell he was going to risk seeing Steve or Fury or even fucking Nat and have to have a damn conversation about his  _ feelings _ right now. That’s what the verboten whiskey was for. 

It made sense, the rule not to bring back drugs or alcohol. That everything was so tenuous anyway, emotions were so high, introducing that element was definitely a bad idea but the warm buzz humming through Tony’s brain begged to differ. 

Bruce had died two hours ago – as far as he knew. He watched the monitor feed to his room, watched him huddled on the rolling bed shuddering, waited with Nat until the heart rate monitor read zero – but he wasn’t the clinician she was. He couldn’t watch Bruce turn into a runner.

Yeah they had talked – as much as Bruce still could – but it was only for a few minutes and it wasn't... Tony had walked down there with the intention of telling Bruce he loved him and walked out a coward but fuck – what good would it have done? If Bruce did feel the way Tony thought he did, then all he would be able to think about before he died was what they didn’t get. And if Tony was wrong, and Bruce didn’t feel that way at all, then shit – that was even worse. He couldn’t live for the rest of his life with the look of horror that would have crossed Bruce’s face if he had been wrong permanently impressed in his brain. 

It was going to be hard enough watching him cry through a flimsy panel of glass every night.

Maybe he was having a breakdown. There was nothing he could really  _ do _ . They had a million dead ends and no solutions and now Bruce was gone. This thing had taken his parents from him weeks ago, had taken most of his friends, had destroyed the precious little life he worked so hard to build for himself, and he was just going to have to watch it keep destroying things until it destroyed him too. 

His lips hit the rim of the bottle again. He was going to be sick, he knew it, but he didn’t care. Alcohol poisoning had to be preferable to what was happening to Bruce right now. 

Tony stared at the bottle, the molded glass, the silver foil label – what a waste, the things humanity had consumed itself with. He remembered the salvage mission he’d picked it up on, only a week ago. Bruce had been with him. He’d been in a great mood despite the circumstances and it was infectious, Tony and Clint and Steve joking with him, feeling good too. 

Most of the walkers had died out and it was rare to see a runner any more so it was easy to let your guard down. The obvious pockets of people hidden in a building surrounded by walkers trying uselessly to get in were gone, at least around their typical salvage grounds. They’d heard at one point people in non-essential positions like water facilities and power plants were told to leave the cities, trying to create distance, but they remained at the clinic with their little rag-tag band of collected uninfected misfits, studying the pathogen until they inevitably lost power.

But that day was a good day, hauling ass across the deserted city in their Jeep to resupply, immune to the stink of rotting bodies coming from everywhere, watching as the sun slowly painted the sky red. They hauled canned goods and bottled water into the back and Tony found this bottle sitting surreptitiously on a shelf where it didn’t belong with no one to see him slip it into his jacket pocket. 

He remembered sitting next to Bruce as the sun set in that Jeep, waiting for Clint and Steve to get back with some pharmaceuticals, soaking in the way Bruce looked so dreamy and romantic – his curls a little too long, beard growing out slowly, his gaze a million miles away – and it was easy to forget why they were there. 

“Funny, huh?” he murmured and Tony blinked, the dreamy easiness replaced suddenly by a thickness in his chest that he could physically feel. “That it should be you and me at the end of the world.”

His heart was doing goddamn flip flops as Bruce turned to look at him and the only thing Tony could think was that this was it – this was finally it! The moment of truth! And Tony watched the way his long lashes nearly brushed his cheeks as Bruce stared at his lips, leaned in a little to make it easier for Bruce, stared up at him with every ounce of affection in his body and mumbled back “good though, yeah?” 

Bruce nodded ever so slightly and just when Tony thought he was going to kiss him, he bit his lip and backed off, clearly embarrassed but trying to play it off like nothing had almost happened. Tony let him, stared out the window, saw Clint and Steve headed back anyway. But he felt that bottle heavy in his jacket and he knew he’d be breaking it out for the night he eventually banged Bruce on the slowly deflating air mattress in his converted office bedroom.

And now here he was, drinking it hours after Bruce’s death, alone. 

It stung so he gulped back some more, tried to turn his brain off but... He should’ve told him. Earlier. Before... everything. It was just – it was stupid. Insecurities seemed so stupid now but he’d just – he’d never had a boyfriend before and he didn’t want to fuck it up. He really had wanted more for Bruce – more for  _ them _ – than that. He’d wanted it to be perfect. 

And now Bruce was dead.

Suddenly there was banging on the door and Tony flinched, crouched tighter into himself, the abrupt reminder that there were still people in this world that he was going to have to face almost enough to make him cry. 

“Go away!” he slurred, clutching the bottle to his chest but Nat didn’t. 

“Tony,” she called back, voice thin. “He’s not dead.”

Tony laughed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah okay.”

“I’m serious,” she continued, Tony suddenly realizing the thinness in her voice was from fear. “He’s not – he’s not dead. Almost as soon as you left, his vitals came back on, but – he wasn’t moving, for a long time. Then – I don’t know Tony you need to see this.  _ I _ need you to see this.”

In that moment Tony was pretty sure he didn’t qualify as living either, pretty sure his heart had stopped. What the hell could she possibly mean?  _ He’s not dead _ ?

“Tony, please,” she pleaded and he heard the desperation plainly then and he stood. 

Against every instinct in his body, against the nausea completely unrelated to the alcohol, against the humming in his head and the fear in his veins, he stood – following the rush of adrenaline that only crazy, stupid, desperate fucking hope could provide.

He unlocked the door, threw it open, looked at Nat’s face – flushed from what he could only guess was crying – and he knew she wasn’t bullshitting him. Whatever was going on in there had her completely shaken – and Nat didn’t shake easily. 

They didn’t speak as they ran back to the observation lab, Tony’s heart throbbing in his ears, feeling way more sober than he knew he was, mind racking up possibilities of what he would find there. 

“Look!” she started immediately, slapping her hand against the vitals display. “Normal!” And then she turned to the video screen, hand shooting out at it. “Look! What the fuck!” 

And Tony stared, watching in disassociated fascination as Bruce lay on the bed, staring at his good hand. After a moment he put it down at his side but then he picked it back up again, held it above his eyes, stretched out the fingers, studying it...? 

“It’s like he rebooted,” Tony said but it sounded hollow and far away and he still thought he might throw up. 

“Yeah,” Nat agreed. “ _ Yeah _ . I’ve never seen a runner do that. And even if – his brain activity? The EGG reads normal. Would a runner do that?”

They’d never tested one – it was way too risky. Runners you had to kill, they were fast and unpredictable and desperate to pass on the disease. But that period only lasted thirty minutes, an hour if you were super unlucky. And this wasn’t anything like that.

“We can’t even go in there,” Tony said, watching as Bruce put his hand back down again and Nat was nodding her head. 

“Way too risky,” she agreed. 

Then slowly, jerkily Bruce – dead Bruce, infected Bruce, left arm a swollen blackened mess of dead flesh Bruce – turned his head, looked straight at the camera,  _ straight at him _ , and sat up.

And Tony threw up.


	4. Pierce (ten hours post brain death)

They all stood there, watching the video feed of Bruce on the bed. He’d stopped talking to them over an hour ago, but they had come to no conclusion on what exactly to do. Instead, they lapsed into a hopeless silence no one seemed able to break. 

Nat chewed at her lower lip, eyes locked on the screen, clearly uncomfortable with her maintained position that it was far too uncertain to open the door, that the bacteria may have evolved, that this may be a stage they’d not seen yet, but unable to change it.

Peter, their young med student consult, looked like he’d rather be thrown to a pack of walkers than be in that room with them, his eyes darting from the screen to Nat to Tony to Fury and back to the screen again, oozing uncertainty.

Sharon seemed impatient, her eyes flicking to Peter every so often, waiting for him to say something, waiting for someone to say something so that she could act on what she as a former EMS responder clearly felt was the best plan – going in and getting him out.

Steve was there for no other reason than moral support and it grated on Tony’s nerves that he stood there puppy-dog-eyeing Nat like  _ she _ was the one in that room.

Fury, their unofficial leader, sat in the back, looking over each of them, unable to make a medical judgement but willing to lend his weight to a favorable decision – if such a decision was able to be reached. 

And Tony? Tony had his arms crossed over his chest, glaring down that video image, scared and angry and pained that Bruce was being forced to sit there locked in a room, unsure if anyone was hearing him, unsure what was happening to him, alone and likely terrified.

He just – he sounded so  _ sane _ . He sounded just like Bruce.  _ There must be an immunity _ , he’d said.  _ I feel – I hurt and I’m sure I’m still infected but I’m fine. I’m fine _ . And what was Tony supposed to believe? What if there  _ was _ an immunity? They couldn’t just ignore that possibility. 

They’d watched as he’d gone from asking to be let out to angry that no one was responding to terrified that they were all dead to completely despondent. But it had been hours and none of those seemed like strange human responses to returning from the dead and being locked in a room and ignored.

Yet they had argued around it the whole time, watched and waited for something ‘definitive’ to ‘prove’ he was immune, sat there in the observation lab safe and scared shitless all while Bruce was in there suffering and Tony was no longer convinced there was anything to be afraid of. 

“He’s either immune – or he’s not,” Tony finally said, breaking the lengthy silence so suddenly Peter actually jumped. “The only way we’ll know is to get a sample.”

“We’ve been through this,” Nat began but Tony cut her off immediately. 

“And if he’s immune you’re willing to let him starve to death in there!” he shouted, voice shaking at the end, wound up so tight he thought he was going to explode. 

“Tony,” Fury warned in that dad voice Tony was coming to hate. 

“I’m not going to sit here and let that happen,” he stated categorically. “We have an obligation to him and we have an obligation to humanity. I’ll go get the blood sample.”

“We don’t even have a comparison case,” Nat argued, knowing it was futile but beside herself with fear. 

It was true they didn’t take any samples beforehand – knowing what was going to happen, Bruce refused them, an out of character move for him but then he was  _ dying _ . But still, Tony didn’t care. He  _ needed _ to know  _ something _ . 

“Then we’ll start here,” Tony said, storming out to get a hazmat suit and supplies. 

He could hear Fury telling Nat to let it go and he could hear the door shutting again behind him and he grit his teeth. He’d already wasted enough time listening to her – if she tried to talk him out of it one more time he’d –

“Tony.”

It was Peter’s voice, shaky and breathless, and it stopped him in his tracks. 

“Peter?” 

“His arm needs to come off – soon,” he said, nervous but sincere. He’d brought it up earlier – it was the whole reason Peter was in there, even though he'd only been in his second year of residency – but it was low down on the list of reasonable arguments to be made for opening that door. “Especially if the pathogen is dying, if he  _ is _ immune – the sepsis that must be festering in that arm will kill him anyway.”

“Then you’d better get ready to amputate, doctor,” Tony replied and it was the first time Peter had shown any sort of relief since he’d been called into that room. 

He explained to Peter where he might find supplies and where he might proceed with the amputation as he put on the hazmat suit and grabbed a sample kit, leaving Peter to get to it as he headed down to meet Bruce – and possibly his own death. 

It was easier not to think about it when it was Bruce, easier to think that there was some immunity, something – even though it made no sense. How, out of all the people infected, would Bruce somehow be immune? But hope was a stupid, stubborn thing, and it really didn’t matter how – Tony  _ wanted _ it to be true.

Still he found himself taking a deep breath before unlocking the chains on that door, unsure what he was going to find. 

But all he found was Bruce – shaken and in pain and trying to stand to meet him but leaning heavily on the bed, face a wash of emotions Tony couldn’t begin to guess at – and he couldn’t care. It was  _ Bruce _ . 

In five steps he was at his side, holding him as he collapsed in his arms, sobbing and shaking, weak fingers clutching at the hazmat suit. Tony thought his chest might collapse with how badly it hurt, knowing he could've been in here sooner, knowing the man he loved was  _ alive _ .

“I thought you were going to let me die in here,” he struggled out, chest heaving, and Tony stroked his hair through plastic gloves, wishing he could feel him, feel the warmth of his skin and know,  _ know _ he was human.

“Well, we kinda did,” Tony joked, unable to help himself, his grin unstoppable, relief pounding through his veins. 

Bruce didn’t have the strength to be angry but he muttered out a half-hearted “fuck you” anyway and it didn’t matter, none of it mattered – Tony  _ knew _ , he just  _ knew _ Bruce was okay.

“Sorry buddy but I gotta get a sample. You understand, right?

He nodded as Tony helped him back on the bed, trying not to grimace at the way his left arm dangled uselessly by his side, not to think about how Peter was going to have to cut it off without much in the way of anesthetic. 

“It hurts,” Bruce started as Tony spread iodine on his arm, listing symptoms, clinical, professional. “Not really pain but it’s like – everything is difficult. Moving, breathing... like I should be dead.”

“Stop,” Tony asked, piercing his skin with the needle, drawing out perfectly normal looking dark red blood, not really wanting to think about how Bruce should be dead.

“It has to be an immunity,” he continued anyway. “My parents were missionaries – I was sick with everything as a kid, my mother died of Cholera for fucks sake but my dad...”

He trailed off then, watching the needle in his skin as Tony filled a few vials. 

“I’ll probably need a couple more before they’ll let you out of here,” Tony admitted, staring down into his eyes as he stared at the ceiling, giving in to the temptation to stroke his temple under the guise of getting his attention. 

“I know,” he answered with a sad sigh, eyes moving over to look up at him through the plastic screen of the hazmat suit. 

“But before that, Peter’s going to have to cut off your arm.”

There was no delicate way of saying it and Bruce took it pretty well considering he’d just died and come back to life, simply closing his eyes and resigning himself to it. 

“I know.”

“I’ll be there though, I mean –” Tony swallowed, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed even in spite of the fucking miracle before him and the whole damn apocalypse outside, “if you want.”

Bruce opened his eyes again, piercing straight through Tony, straight to his heart. 

“Please?” 


	5. Triumph (nine weeks post patient zero)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am making some SERIOUS LEAPS with good science and it's killing me inside but also. It's the zombie apocalypse so....

When Tony agreed to be the test case for the vaccine, Bruce didn’t know what to think. In the month since his death Tony had been constantly by his side – through the horrific amputation he thought was going to kill him a second time, the endless blood draws that left his remaining arm black and blue, the distrustful eyes and antagonizing whispers of the others who called their clinic home, the prognosis that he would have permanent nerve damage and he’d never really feel the same again, the totally unexpected and horrifically embarrassing crying episodes that overwhelmed him at times – and Bruce couldn’t understand why. He never asked, never expected it. He was the one who let his guard down, he was the one who got infected, it was his fault. Whatever guilt Tony felt for him being in that room was misplaced – Tony had argued for his life and risked his own to get him out. Tony owed him nothing – if anything, he owed Tony  _ his _ life. Not that anyone would want it at this point but. 

Certainly Tony didn’t have to volunteer as a test case for the vaccine.

At least they had tested it, albeit it not very extensively, on the few remaining animals they could find – Steve and Clint going way out of the city to a petting zoo Clint’s niece had been to once to find a few half-starved pigs that managed to avoid the infection. And although the pigs survived the second and third tests, there was little to no guarantee Tony would. No one else was exactly chomping at the bit to be a pig, but still. Tony did more than enough. He didn’t have to do  _ this _ . 

Honestly, Bruce wasn’t entirely sure he could watch him do this.

“I’m the one who argued for our moral obligation to humanity,” Tony pointed out, sitting on a bed one room over from the room Bruce had died in, looking entirely too nonchalant about what was about to happen. “It would be kind of ridiculous to refuse.”

For a moment Bruce said nothing. What he wanted to say... it seemed presumptuous, bordered too closely to confessions he didn't want to make, desires long held that seemed impossible to indulge now. Once he had believed Tony liked him – and of course part of him hoped that was still true. But anymore he didn’t believe it, not really. He was a nerve-damaged, armless, mentally fried disaster and it wasn’t fair to expect anyone to want to be with him as he was now.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t still harbor deep, deep feelings for Tony. 

“I just don’t want you to feel obligated... to me,” Bruce said, quiet, unsure but needing to say it, needing Tony to hear it. “No one would judge you for backing out, least of all me.”

Tony snorted and rolled his eyes dramatically, turning away. “I’m a big boy now, mom,” he muttered out sarcastically. But then, much softer, added, “but if I did feel obligated, would it  _ really _ be so bad?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Bruce replied emphatically, unable to believe that was a question at all. “First of all, you have no obligation to me, you _ saved my life _ when no one else would, so no, you have no obligation. And second – not to be self-deprecating because it’s the damn apocalypse and I really don’t care – but I’m not sure I really even deserve to be alive I mean –” and he chuckled stretching out his arm stump wrapped in a compression sock and gesturing with his hand across his painful and woefully out of shape body “– look at me. No one should feel obligated to this. I wasn’t even able to help you and Nat with the vaccine.”

It was true, though it hurt to say out loud, and he had wanted to, and he sat in the lab with them in their hazmat suits and he tried to concentrate on what they were doing, tried to make worthwhile suggestions, but he just... couldn’t. Honestly he was scared he’d never be able to think as clearly or as quickly as he once did, and even if he could, half the time he would start hyperventilating in the quiet, the back of his mind spiraling on being locked in that room, nothing but the sound of machinery and fluorescent lights humming away.

But Tony was looking at him, the way he’d asked, looking at him with those warm brown eyes, really looking at him and making him feel naked and embarrassed and he wanted to back away but he couldn’t because in that moment Tony said something that completely immobilized him. 

“I don’t want what you suffered to go to waste, Bruce. I'm... I’m in love with you.”

There was nothing he could say, nothing he could do, but stare. He couldn’t even doubt the sincerity of what Tony had said because he said it so softly, so sweetly, so earnestly that Bruce could do nothing but stare, listen to the fuzzy sound in his head that made him feel like he was going to fucking faint, and know, know that it was true. 

“I have been, for a long time, but I’ve never had the chance to say it because I don’t want you to think that means anything, that you have to do anything but – I  _ want _ to do this.”

Bruce’s mouth was dry, so incredibly dry, and he couldn’t really breath, but he tried to swallow, tried to open his mouth to say the thing he had desperately wanted to say for months, for  _ years _ , but then Nat was there to administer the vaccine and he couldn't say anything at all.

Natasha asked him once again if he was sure about this and Tony replied with an unwavering affirmative. She put a needle catheter in his arm, took a sample, then hesitated only a moment before injecting Tony with the vaccine. 

“Are you sure you wanted to stay in here?” she asked Bruce and he shrugged. 

“I’m immune and I’ve already lost my arm – what’s the worst that could happen?”

Nat shot him a shitty look but he didn’t even have the heart to reply, dropping into the chair next to Tony’s bed. 

The silence lasted a while – he knew what was going through Tony’s brain then, he’d experienced it himself. And that was what ultimately made him say what he did. As much as he didn't want Tony to feel like it meant he had to do anything either, no one deserved those dark, lonely thoughts. 

“I love you too, you know,” he said quietly, not having the courage to look at him, the weight on his chest feeling impossible even despite Tony's own confession, the burden of feelings having been carried so long. “Have for a long time.” Bruce chuckled, staring at the grey speckled tile floor. “Since you started working here.”

For a moment Bruce thought Tony wasn’t going to say anything at all – and he didn’t. But he dropped his arm off the bed, into Bruce’s line of sight, and Bruce smiled, overcome with the simplicity of it, with the reality – it wasn’t unrequited after all. 

His fingers met Tony’s and slowly, hesitantly twined them together. With the nerve damage it was almost impossible to feel something as subtle as the warmth of his hand, though he imagined he could – but the weight of it felt good, the solidness. Made him feel like... it was okay. Fucking stupid – there was a zombie apocalypse outside – but. It seemed okay. 

“It’s going to work,” Bruce murmured, still staring at the floor. 

Tony grunted. “I know.” He sounded self-assured, though Bruce was skeptical. 

Nat came in every hour to take a sample, like clockwork. The first time she glanced curiously at their hands, but didn’t say anything. Eventually she brought some food – they ate in silence. There was no point in talking about it, not really. Not until this shit got sorted out and they had some hope at a future to even talk about. 

It wasn’t until the thirteenth hour that Tony admitted he felt pretty bad – tired, lethargic – and Bruce started to sweat. Tried to get him to sleep a little but Tony just rolled over in retaliation, stared at the wall, and ignored him. It was a bad two hours but when Nat came in for the next blood draw, Bruce just knew by the look on her face that it was good news. 

“There’s no use in getting overly optimistic,” she warned, training her lips into an almost-scowl. “But the rapid increase in bacteria has stalled. Obviously we don’t know what it’s doing to the brain, yet, but... it’s a step in the right direction.” 

For a few minutes after she left, there was a cautious silence between them, like they both wanted to say something triumphant but neither really wanted to so blatantly ignore Nat’s warning about optimism. But then Tony kind of laughed, a breathy little thing, and turned to him, face half buried in a pillow, and their eyes met, shiny and amused and Bruce had spent so much time staring into those eyes, watching them, studying them, the flash of anger when he was challenged, the little crinkles at the corner when he smiled. And for so long, so so long he’d wanted those eyes to look at him like this, like in that moment he was the only thing in the world that mattered, and now that he finally got it, it was impossible, it  _ felt _ impossible, because when Bruce looked into those eyes all he could think about was how it was possible that Tony could see him as anything other than an unmitigated disaster. 

 

But somehow... he did. Bruce could tell, looking at Tony, and he knew that he just  _ did _ . 

 

“So,” Tony said, a smile tweaking at his lips, “how do you feel about whiskey?” 


	6. Eclipse (twelve weeks post patient zero)

The day the power went out was not a good day. Bruce kinda knew it was coming – everyone did. Not that the power would go out, necessarily, though realistically it was going to happen eventually – but that they would have to leave. They had been developing the vaccine, they had tested it on a few others – Peter, Sharon, Fury, those who would ultimately stay to take care of those who remained. But they had to take the vaccine out, they had to find some semblance of government, of some way to distribute it – and if there was anyone left at the CDC they were going to have to get over there tomorrow before they all left too. 

And while Bruce knew he had to go with them, had to, that he might be vital to the development of more vaccine – he didn’t want to go. What he had experienced here since the first stories of a deadly superbug started breaking on the news – it was too much. Too much had happened and the past few weeks he’d spent with Tony – eating, working, sleeping together – were so... normal, as normal as he could ever have hoped to have now, that he really,  _ really _ didn’t want to give that up. 

The room was dark, the only light for hundreds of miles coming from the moon, only a sliver in the sky now and hardly enough, and it made everything that much more intense. Tony was pressed up tight against him on the shitty air mattress that never kept it's shape that Tony'd pilfered from god knows where, face to face, hip to hip, kissing him so hard it hurt but Bruce didn’t care. His hand was tucked up under Tony’s neck, holding him there so he couldn’t escape as his lips crushed back. 

Up until this point they had always gone slow. Tony was a thoughtful, conscientious, and good-natured partner who, unlike the fumbled and awkward one night stands Bruce was used to, seemed to really enjoy sex and want him to as well. But tonight there was an desperation neither of them were able fight, hanging on the precipice of a morning that would change things forever. 

Bruce’s chest was heaving, his body covered in sweat, dick hard against Tony’s, buried between his hips. And although his feeling was diminished, hyped up on sex and fear it still felt overwhelming, each movement of his hips against Tony’s making him shake, unable to get enough friction for it to count for much of anything but just enough to keep him on the edge. 

There were a million things he wanted to say but he didn’t know how. He was terrified – terrified of what was out there. Of what wasn’t. Of there being nothing. Of there being no one left. Of a slow, shitty slide into starvation. Of the total and devastating loss of the hope he had begun to feel over the past few weeks. Of knowing that they were too late, way too late. Of knowing that it was all for nothing, that it would have been better if he’d died quickly then instead of suffering indefinitely. 

His mind was shaky ground but Tony – Tony’s body was solid. And it was easier to lay against him like this, totally consumed by his body, than it was to think about the future, about anything. 

“Babe?” Tony mumbled against his lips, drawing back a little to do so and Bruce fell still against him. “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” His voice was noticeably strained even in a whisper and he knew Tony would notice.

“It's tomorrow,” Tony answered matter-of-factly, running a hand through Bruce's damp hair. “We don't have to do this right now, we can –”

But Bruce, with his hand still tucked behind Tony's neck, pulled him back into a kiss – more tentative now but still needy, still wanting.

“Bruce,” he started against his mouth but Bruce shook his head ever so slightly, shoving his tongue inside to shut him up. 

For a minute it worked. Tony's dick was still hard and it jerked against his thigh, not ready to give up yet, so it was easy to persuade him back down this mindless path where Bruce just didn't have to think. But Tony, his brain never shut up, and even as he was kissing him he was mumbling how it was going to be okay, it was going to be okay, it was going to be... 

“Stop,” Bruce answered back, exasperated. 

“I'm going with you, I'm going to be there, it'll be okay,” Tony said, attempting to be reassuring as he once again created a little space between them. 

“It's not...” Bruce started and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, knowing Tony wouldn't stop until he talked. “It's just – what if there's no one left to save?” 

Tony laughed. It wasn't a chastising laugh at all, just a light exhalation of amusement, and Bruce found it strangely comforting that Tony was so unconcerned. 

“Humans are pretty damn resilient,” he said, his nose brushing ever so slightly against Bruce's own. “Look at us. The pathogen dies after two weeks without an active host, we've made it twelve. And you were immune – other people will be too. There will definitely be people out there, don't worry.”

For a moment Tony was quiet. Bruce could hardly see his eyes with how dark it was and how close he was but it didn't matter. He knew how Tony was looking at him. 

“Nothing scares you, then?” Bruce jabbed playfully, still feeling a little vulnerable or he might not have said it, but genuinely feeling a bit better or it would've come out more cruel. 

Tony grabbed his ass with one hand, grinding his hips hard against Bruce's, causing Bruce to gasp at the unexpected rush of sensation. 

“Only one thing,” he teased. “That this fine piece of ass might one day not be mine.”

“Shut up,” Bruce grumbled, not yet able to take such a direct compliment as to his worth seriously. 

But Tony was kissing him again, that little hint of desperation telling him that Tony hadn't been entirely joking, that he _was_ scared of losing him. It seemed silly after everything he'd been through – Tony watched him die for fucks sake. But then, Tony already knew what that was like, didn't he? Who would have wanted to have to do that twice?

And Bruce kissed him back with all the reassurance he could manage –  _ you're it for me, you know, I don't want to lose you either  _ – but was too afraid to say. Things like love – what was the point of talking about it here, now, when no one knew what the future held? Tony knew. Tony knew.

So the room was quiet but for stifled moans and wet kisses and by the time Tony slipped his hand between them Bruce was on the verge of begging for it. And the feeling of Tony next to him, kissing him, holding him, stroking him, surrounding him – the feeling of Tony, of what he felt for him, eclipsed everything. 


	7. Yours (one week since leaving Atlanta)

The lack of light pollution made the stars overwhelming as they sat in the dark in the Jeep waiting for the rest of the caravan to finish up negotiating driver switches, going to the bathroom, refueling vehicles, and eating quickly. It was hard to do anything but stare up at the sky, wondering how many years it had been since people saw the night sky like that. Tony never had.

The trip had been both encouraging and discouraging so far. There definitely had been people. They had seen signs crudely painted and posted on the highway indicating that everyone was headed to DC. The thrill of knowing there were other people was high, but then they reached DC and just outside the city there was a sign covering the exit for Springfield that said “TAKE WEST BYPASS, MOVED TO NYC.”

It was definitely a blow. Going was slow – the caravan had a total of fifteen cars that had to be fueled and maintained and the roads were far from clear. They immediately had to stop to discuss logistics and if they had enough fuel to make New York. It would take another two days to get to there, conservatively. While they drove through the night to avoid being targets of the few lingering walkers, it still took forever in the dark, and crawling down the highway at twenty miles an hour only to run into a cluster of wrecked and abandoned cars and have to backtrack to get off and go around was maddening.

Bruce’s fingers squeezed Tony’s hand and he squeezed back. The lack of down time had been rough on them, too – especially Bruce, who couldn’t drive, was basically just being taken to whatever semblance of a government was left and handed over as a blood bag, and frequently verged on panic attacks – and so Tony appreciated moments like this. Moments where they were as alone as they could be and had a little time to process.

“Do you believe in God?”

Tony looked over at Bruce and blinked, stunned by the question that came out of nowhere.

“I was raised Catholic – so no,” Tony joked, not really in the mood to get too deep. He was tired and anxious and looking forward to Steve driving for a bit and crashing out with his hand in Bruce’s hair and Bruce’s head in his lap.

Bruce hummed and paused, his eyes trained upward, and Tony studied him as he did before, before they knew he was immune, weeks ago though it seemed like a lifetime, missing the curls he had Nat sheer off before they left, the beard that was trying to grow back in. He seemed old, now. They both did.

“I used to, you know, when I was a kid....” Bruce said, dropping Tony’s hand to pull the blanket they were under tighter around himself. “Then my mom died and I just didn’t understand how God could do that to me, leave me with my father, who basically let her die... So for most of my life I’ve believed that the shit that happens to people is just what it is – people cause it and they can try to fix it but... this?”

For a moment he was quiet, surveying the landscape, the lack of fluorescent lighting, the abandoned cars, the faint stink of rotting flesh, the devastating effects of a deadly bacteria.

“Funny that it should be you and me at the end of the world, huh?” Tony murmured, remembering how Bruce had said it, so shyly, so endearingly. Despite everything that has happened since, that they had both gotten what they wanted, what they needed... Tony still wished Bruce had kissed him then.

Bruce gave him a lopsided grin. “Right.” Bruce’s hand found his again, slipping their fingers together where they fit perfectly, squeezing. “How did humanity create this? I can’t figure that one out – but I can think of plenty we’ve done to deserve it.”

Though he was inclined to argue that no one deserved to see their entire family die or spend their last few days on earth starving to death behind closed doors rather than face becoming a zombie or even have their arm amputated and turned into a science experiment, Tony was too tired and he let it go.

“If it wasn’t this it would have been global warming or nuclear war,” he replied instead, shrugging and yawning at the end and Bruce yawned too, shaking it off and grinning.

“So what you're really saying is that you're an unrelenting pessimist.”

Tony grimaced and laughed. “That's a damning accusation coming from you.”

Bruce laughed too and it was so nice to hear him laugh that Tony squeezed his fingers and pulled him a little closer.

“I was actually thinking, before you had to go and get all philosophical, that it's been a hundred years – give or take – since people have seen the night sky so clearly. I kinda like it.”

Bruce jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow and flashed him an adoring smile. “There’s my little hopeless romantic.”

Tony rolled his eyes, a come back about not being hopeless, romantic, or _small_ on the tip of his tongue before the back popped open and a bag was thrown in the trunk as Natasha swung into the passenger seat.

“You two are having entirely too much fun back there,” she teased over her shoulder and Bruce made some reply but Tony had shifted, turning around to help Steve repack the back.

“How’s he doing?” Steve asked softly, his eyes darting to the back of Bruce’s head, and Tony frowned.

“Great,” Tony answered simply, knowing that no matter what kind intentions people had with Bruce they could never understand what he’d been through and it would only ever seem like prying pity. Plus, he could never really trust Steve with Bruce, not after watching him say nothing as Bruce became despondent on the video feed.

They shared a strained look but let it drop as Steve swung the trunk shut and climbed into the driver’s seat. Tony rearranged himself so that his back was propped up against the window and Bruce could lay back into him more comfortably, spooned together with Tony’s arms around him, holding him close.

The night air breezed past as Bruce hid his face up under Tony’s chin, closing his eyes and yawning again. It had been a long day. That sign had sucked. Everyone had been down about it. He was looking forward to tomorrow, hoping it would be a better day.

Tony tucked the blanket in around them better so that a strong gust of wind wouldn’t blow it off and he nestled his nose in Bruce’s hair, kissing his temple, feeling a strong sense of sadness for what might have been.

“I don’t think I’m a hopeless romantic either,” Tony mumbled in his ear, safely folded into their little space, their little harbor of each other against the world, “but I _am_ yours.”

Bruce chuckled and Tony felt it against his chest, soft and warm. “Case in point. Total hopeless romantic.”

Tony paused, staring out at the abandoned landscape as they rolled by, at all the stars in the sky, at the great vast emptiness that was their world now and it really hit home, what Bruce had said so many weeks ago, and Tony didn't think it was God but... But he couldn't help but marvel at the fact that despite all that – all the death, all the uncertainty, all the pain and loneliness and grief – Bruce was there, with him, still there, after everything. And as he watched the scenery pass he figured, well...

“Maybe a little.”


End file.
